Lady Annabelle Beaumont prefers books to ballrooms. With her elder sister married, she intends to avoid men until she’s old enough to be put on the shelf along with her favourite novels. Unfortunately, when she’s inadvertently discovered alone with notorious rake Jacob Barrington, she has two choices: enter an engagement with a man she loathes or be ruined forever.

Jacob Barrington, newly minted Marquess of Sunderland and the “Devil of St James”, plans to destroy his family’s reputation in the most licentious way possible. An engagement is not on the agenda, especially to someone he detests. Instead, he offers to spend their fake engagement finding Annabelle a husband she prefers. But as their desire deepens into something more, she ends their deal and leaves London entirely. Alone, Jacob comes to a realisation: the devil does possess a heart.

And she’s just run away with it.

As soon as the door closed behind them, he caught her hand and tugged her into the first room they came across: a small closet used for storing cleaning supplies. A mop tumbled across his shoulder as he closed the door on them, casting them into darkness.

Annabelle’s heartbeat shook her entire body. She looked up at where she knew his face to be, so far above her own that he would have to lean down to kiss her.

No, she should not be thinking about kissing. Except his body was dangerously close to hers, sending her alight and forcing her to remember what had happened the last time they had been like this, lined up, his heat soaking into her like a warm bath and his breath fanning over her face.

“Jacob?” she whispered, and he jolted. His hand found her waist, spanning it almost entirely, fingers tightening until they dug in. He didn’t draw her closer, but he didn’t push her away, either.

“I suppose now we know who we have to thank.”

“Please don’t cause a scene. I know you’re angry, but—”

“Angry? I’m furious.” He leant closer, and although she couldn’t see him, she could sense his proximity. He smelt of leather and amber and something darker that reminded her of a rain-soaked night. Wild, yet comforting, the juxtaposition reminding her of her conflicted feelings.

“Jacob,” she whispered again.

“I take it back. I don’t want you saying my name.”

“Why?”

“Because it makes me want to do this.”

The moment his mouth crushed against hers, Annabelle knew she had been lying to herself. All those times she had told herself she didn’t want the Marquess to kiss her again had been a delusion. Every moment she had convinced herself that because she disliked him, she didn’t want him, had been a fabrication.

Because there was no denying she wanted this.

He pushed her until her back collided with the wall. Something clattered to the ground beside her, but with his mouth hot on hers, his tongue sliding inside her mouth with practised sensuality, there was nothing else that existed in Annabelle’s world. Of their own accord, her hands reached up and gripped his lapels, holding him closer, drinking him in like fine wine. He nipped at her lip, sending foreign heat spreading through her. She had never felt so alive.

She had never felt so much like she was falling.

If she had been in her right mind, she might have been petrified of the landing. The Marquess wasn’t gentleman enough to catch her, and reality was sure to be a sharp, unpleasant shock. As it was, she bowed her back, pressing her body against his every way it could. Her skirts rustled as he stepped into them, one thigh between her legs, pressing up against her core, the friction sending a rush of molten pleasure through her.

There was a rushing sound in her ears as one hand found her hip, drawing her still closer. His breath was ragged against her neck as she tipped her head back with a moan, staring into darkness, unable to believe she was giving into this, but unable to stop. Not wanting to stop.

“Quiet,” he murmured against her neck, nipping her skin then licking away the sting. “I need you to be quiet for me, little bird.”

“Jacob, what—”

His hand found her breast, squeezing, and even through the material of her dress, she felt the intimate touch as though it had been against her bare skin. Her nipples pinched, solid under his fingers, and he let out a rough laugh, barely audible in the darkness.

“Your husband will be a lucky man, Annabelle.”

Her husband. Her husband.

Annabelle was no expert in the matter, but she rather suspected her future husband would not look kindly on her having frolicked in a darkened closet with a man whose reputation was one of ruination.

The Devil of St James. And she had almost let him ruin her, too.